I Can’t Stop Nesting

My new husband and I have accidentally taken very stereotypical roles in preparing for these babies. It’s sickening, biology.

For him, he can’t stop working. It’s all he does. He is trying to save as much money as possible, imagining all these scenarios in which the babies come and suddenly we have no money at all. I have come to take issue with this compulsion of his a few times, like this week. He’s refereed 16 hockey games in the past three days, even though the past two nights he’s come in with chills and a fever he refuses to diagnose by thermometer. He also refuses to get someone to cover for him because “we need the money.” So while I conjure up all these nightmare scenarios in my head of him in a hospital room, I do all I can to take care of him–making him a nutritious breakfast, making sure he drinks an Emergen-C and lots of water–and I try not to worry.

Meanwhile, my estrogen-filled self is compelled to clean everything we own, to get rid of everything unnecessary, and to organize what’s left to “make room” for these rockers and strollers and onesies and bassinets. I spent three hours organizing¬†the pantry and the cabinet under the kitchen sink. I’ve taken three car trips to Salvation Army so far. I took down the curtains and even took the throw pillows out of their cases to wash. I borrowed a caulk gun from a neighbor and re-caulked the whole bathroom. I washed and waxed my car, even scrubbed the upholstery and brought in a Q-tip for all the cracks.¬†And that’s only the beginning of my nesting to-do list.

At least it feels satisfyingly reassuring when I see my handiwork. Maybe that’s how Kai feels when he deposits his checks, even with trembling hands and a fever.